


(I've Got) Dreams to Remember

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7167827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days following their reunion at the gallery, Karma and Amy begin to explore what the future holds, and if that future is one they’ll share.</p><p> <i>“This happiness could’ve been yours for <em>years</em>, and you feel cheated.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Building

**Author's Note:**

> Future fic. Follows canon and includes 3A references. Sequel to [Ashes of Dreams You Let Die](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6825664). Here’s the long-awaited sequel! This is for everyone who enjoyed the first story so much. Until now, I’ve never written a sequel to any of my stories before – or I haven’t called it one – but your reaction to it was so wonderful that it only felt right to do it. For those of you that enjoyed Karma’s friend Gia, she makes a significant appearance here. Thank you as ever, to @spasticandviolent for reading through this and offering her advice. This story is all the better for it. There are deliberate moments of repetition and purposeful callbacks to AOD throughout. I wanted to expand the universe presented here, but I also wanted to make sure the story spoke to something in the original too. I hope it achieves that. Title from the Otis Reading song of the same name.

_"When they were together like that, they had been their own_  
_private universe,_ _bounded just by themselves, a population of two._  
_They were the world,_ _and the world was them."  
– _ Patrick Ness, _More than This_.

***

**Karma Ashcroft is in a relationship with Amy Raudenfeld**

The second you change your status, your phone blows up, and it suddenly feels like this whole restaurant of crowded people saw it too. A whole ten minutes passed of you looking between Amy waiting in a long line at the bar and Gia at your side, coaxing you to change it like you’re back in middle school. For at least nine of those ten minutes, closing the app and not doing anything at all was high on your list of options.

It’s a risk, and you could blame wine or the company for your sudden and very public declaration about your and Amy’s relationship, but it just felt like the right thing to do. Gia’s visit has made you think about everything that’s happened since Amy’s show opened two – _two! –_ weeks ago, and even though you’re yet to talk about this with Amy in concrete terms, you’d be lying if shouting it from the rooftops – or in this case, changing your status – hasn’t been on your mind ever since you woke up that very first morning in her bed.

The first of many mornings as it happens.

Reconnecting with her _does_ feel like you’re in the middle of a tornado, but you’re in the middle with her, in the calm of its eye, and you’ve never been happier. That nauseating kind of happy you always wished for, but never felt with anyone but Amy. Your mother’s pointed it out on the rare occasions you’ve been home for clothes. Lydia, Dan, and Gabriel have said the same during lunch and breakfast conversations on the rare occasion you’ve left Amy’s apartment – or more precisely Amy’s bed – and it’s all Gia’s been talking about any time Amy’s gone to the bathroom or excused herself to answer a phone call. You watch her now as she reaches into her pocket for it, knowing the notification’s been sent. She turns around and looks at you and shakes her head, but then, she smiles, big and bright, and you let out a deep sigh of relief. She taps her screen and you know she’s confirmed it before the notification pings its way back to you. A decade ago, she did that under duress to keep up your _ridiculous_ faking it facade, but now you know there’s nothing fake about what’s going on between you.

Much to your surprise, you’ve found that real life _can_ actually be a lot like a Richard Curtis movie.

 

 **Amy (10:23 PM):  
** Someone’s presumptuous. Lucky you’re cute.

 

“So, she took that well, huh?” Gia comments, elbowing you.

“You’re a terrible person,” you reply, trying not to laugh. “This is your fault entirely.”

“Is not, I think you’ll find I pressed no buttons and typed no messages. This is all on you!” she reminds you, holding up her hands in defence.

That’s exactly the same shit she said last time, right before she snatched your laptop away and held it hostage until she’d typed most of that first reply email for you.

 

 **Karma (10:23 PM):  
** Are you mad?

 **Amy (10:24 PM):**  
No. Just surprised.  
In a good way x

 **Karma (10:24 PM):**  
Good. I just wanted to  
make things more official.  
  
**Amy (10:24 PM):**  
I’m glad. I like how it looks.

 **Karma (10:24 PM):  
** Me too xx.

 **Amy (10:25 PM):**  
I’ll be right back, Miss  
Facebook Official.

 

“God, you two are fucking adorable. If I didn’t like you so much I’d find this whole thing fucking gross.”

You look up to find Gia reading over your shoulder, and you just glare at her. It really is a good thing you never knew each other in high school; her, Shane, Lisbeth, and Leila probably would’ve made their own Karmy fan club.

“G, I’m happy,” you say, as if it’s somehow bad, or something that needs excusing.

“Duh,” she replies with a wry smile. “I _know_ you’re happy. You’re fucking glowing, Ash. Whatever she’s doing, she’s gotta keep on doing it because I’ve never seen you like this. You look good,” she continues, more sincere, reaching over to touch your hand. “I’m happy you’re happy because fuck knows you weren’t for a really long time.”

“I know,” you admit quietly.

It sounds bleak when Gia puts it like that, but it’s true. You never realised how miserable you’d been until you saw Amy again and spent time with her. You’ve settled into a routine so quickly, so easily, that it’s almost terrifying. Sure, there are things you still have to fill in about what’s happened over the last eight years, but there are less blanks than you thought there’d be. It felt right to stay there, and didn’t have that same alien feeling as sleeping in your teenage bedroom, even if it wasn’t something you talked about, and until a day or so ago at least, you never assumed anything, and always asked Amy if she wanted you to stay.

The fact that she always said yes consistently came as a surprise. You were terrified the bubble would burst at some point, that your luck would run out somehow, and she’d want her life, her apartment, and her bed back, but she’s never said anything like that. Not once.

Your notifications are still going insane, and you think your phone might actually melt from all this activity, but you couldn’t care less. You never thought such a simple act could give you such a rush of adrenaline. There are hundreds of likes and comments already, the fact that people are so happy is mind-blowing, but it’s moving so fast you can’t keep track of who is saying what. You’re just about to pocket your phone when a few texts arrive from Shane in quick succession. Honestly, you’re surprised he took so long.

 

 **Shane (10:27 PM):**  
HAVE I DIED? AM I IN  
A PARALLEL UNIVERSE?

 **Shane (10:27 PM):**  
OMG KARMA YOU GOT  
YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!  
FINALLY!

 **Karma (10:28 PM):**  
Might want to ease off the caps  
there bud. Yeah, Karma got her  
shit together. Finally.

 

“Dude, you just referred to yourself in the third person. Two weeks around all these art types and you’ve gone rogue!”

“G, stop reading my fucking texts!” you exclaim, swatting her.

“Excuse me for seeking entertainment while we wait for Amazing Amy to get back. Between that, you texting everyone and their mom, and gauging how gay that hot waitress is, I have limited options.”

“I’d just like to remind you, _again_ , that you put this whole thing in motion, Gia Costello,” you chuckle, following her eye line a few tables to your left.

She’s right, the waitress is pretty hot, but not Amy hot, and _she_ looks incredible tonight, even if you do say so yourself. Gia’s been watching the waitress all night, pushing the envelope a little more each time she’s come back to your table. She’s not pushing for pushing sake, of course, she’s not like that, something _will_ happen – even if it’s only swapping numbers – you can tell.

“Frankly, honey,” Gia begins, conspiratorial, leaning closer, “you should be thanking me for all the sex you’ve had this past two weeks.”

“Gia!”

“Karma!” she mimics, looking at you pointedly. You’re still getting used to anyone but Amy calling you that. “Whatever, it’s true. Make me maid of honour or name your inevitably gorgeous firstborn after me.”

“I could stretch to godmother, Amy’s sister’s had wedding dibs since forever.”

“Deal.”

You look over at Amy again, now talking to the guy behind the bar whose mixing the vodka cranberry you asked for. She didn’t even _need_ to go, you could’ve gotten it yourself, but she insisted, sweetly, with a gentle pat to your hand that she’d go, leaving you and Gia a little more time to catch up. She was up and out of her seat before you could even argue. One moment you were checking Facebook messages, and the next, Gia had coaxed you into that status change between updating you on the latest AA gossip, about her upcoming schedule (Miami with Tara), the hot new pilot Brandon Blevins (whose apparently taken Sam’s crown as the hottest co-pilot flying AA’s routes), and the continuing rage-inducing behaviour of Captain Hurley (a sexist letch who still thinks he’s in his 1970s prime). What can you say? You got distracted and let your guard down.

Predictably, Shane’s back texting you, because he has to interrogate you at every opportunity. You’re not sure what to think about the fact that you’re letting this happen, but it feels like a good thing. Ever since you found Amy in that crowded gallery, your life has been full of good things.

  
**Shane (10:29 PM):**  
AGH SHIT! IT’S REAL!  
Sorry, I’m still processing.

 **Shane (10:29 PM):**  
God, I’m so happy for you guys!  
Why the fuck am I in New York  
when you’re both in Austin for  
the first time in an age?!

 **Karma (10:30 PM):**  
Because you’re Bergdorf’s best!  
The men of New York would be  
nowhere near as stylish without you!

 **Karma (10:30 PM):**  
We can meet up again  
Shane, New York isn’t the moon!

 **Shane (10:31 PM):**  
I know, but still. Lauren’s gonna  
freak! Also, she owes me 50 bucks.

 **Karma (10:31 PM):**  
You bet on us? You’re gross!

**Shane (10:32 PM):**  
Bitch please, I’m smart. Lauren  
said you wouldn’t hook up after the  
gallery show, I told her she was wrong.

 **Karma (10:32 PM):**  
I hate that you knew.  
It just happened, I didn’t  
plan to go into her apartment  
and not leave for two weeks!

 **Shane (10:32 PM):**  
How quickly you forget! I’m  
an expert in all things Karmy.  
Plus, that’s totally what  
Amy said, you sluts!

 

You roll your eyes at his reply, and send him the middle finger emoji in lieu of a real, adult response. This evening started out so well with cultured conversation about travel and art, and now it’s all gone distinctly high school. He sends you one back with its tongue sticking out and you toss your phone on the table. He’s a lost cause, but an adorable one. You figure he’s waited long enough to have this moment of celebration, so you’ll just let him be for now.

“Oh, I love this guy!” Gia laughs, still reading. “He seems cooler than you said.”

You glare at her again, but there’s no malice in it. “He’s an ass, but a lovable one. We used to be frenemies, he hated me for breaking Amy’s heart.”

“Such a stone cold bitch!” she drawls, looking at you over the top of her wine glass.

“I was not!” you protest.

“I’m kidding, you were confused, now you’ve seen the light. The rainbow-infused light!” she laugh, clinking her glass to yours. “And tasted the delights of ladies,” she adds, with a wink.

 _God_ , you’ve missed her.

It reminds you of sitting in the countless airport lounges, waiting on flights, texting and people watching to kill time with her, Tara, and Jess when you were all on the same schedule. You thought you’d miss the routine of it all, bouncing around from airport, to lounge, plane and back again, but you don’t. You’ll _never_ miss working red eye flights, or having to wake up at some _ungodly_ hour so you’d be presentable only to be screamed at by rude, entitled businessmen. What you’ll really miss is sitting in that lounge or talking to passengers and fixing drinks. You’ll miss corralling herds of unaccompanied minors, jittery and excited, following you through the airport like a gaggle of baby ducks. You miss being around people. It’s why you waitressed through college, even when the hours sucked and the tips were non-existent.

“Speaking of the delights of ladies,” she nudges you. “Your girl is coming back.” At that, you look up and smile in a way you’re sure is idiotic. “For the record, you _totally_ undersold her hotness. She’s _fine_ as all hell.”

“Hey!”

“What? It’s true. How you were _not_ tapping that for the entirety of high school is beyond me!”

“I was young, and _very_ dumb,” you shrug.

It’s the easy version of the story and you both know it.

“Glad I could help re-educate you then!” she replies, smugly.

“Sorry, that took for- _fucking_ -ever!” Amy begins, apologetic as she rushes back over to the table. “There you go, babe,” she continues, placing your drink down.

“Thank you,” you reply, sweetly, vaguely aware you’re probably batting your lashes at her and/or grinning idiotically.

She doesn’t seem to mind though, because she slides into her seat, and leans in for a kiss, soft but insistent, oblivious to anyone else at the table, much less the restaurant. Her entire focus has been you ever since you saw her at the gallery. You’re the only girl to make it past the morning after. She’s told you as much. The kiss takes you by surprise because you’re in public and she’s never been one for PDA, so it takes you a few seconds to react, but you do because it’s _Amy_. She’s smiling against your lips, and you’re enveloped by her perfume and her pretty blonde hair partly blocks your vision, and you just need to kiss her back in the way she deserves, letting it linger just a little. Who cares about people watching? This is too perfect, and you’re too happy, too in love, to give a shit. You wasted far too much time worrying about what people think.

This happiness could’ve been yours for _years_ , and you feel cheated.

“Oh, wow, you two need a room!” Gia declares, clearing her throat loudly.

You pull away, reluctantly, and you’re both laughing nervously at getting caught, like naughty little schoolgirls. You’re also pretty sure you’re glowing with embarrassment. Under the table, Amy takes your hand, stroking her thumb across the top of it to soothe you. It’s exactly what she did last week when you had dinner at your parents house and it felt distinctly like you were bringing Amy home as a date rather than your bestest, oldest friend.

“Sorry, G,” you say, sheepish, never gladder for that drink to distract yourself with, even if it means letting go of Amy’s hand to drink it.

“Liar!” she grins.

“Got a little carried away there,” Amy chips in, with a wry smile.

“No shit! Do you want me to pay for that little floorshow? I feel like I need post-coital cigarettes now!”

It breaks the awkward tension and you’re all laughing now, clinking your glasses together in toast. This is all you ever wanted, you think, to be with someone and not have it be some dirty little secret or just something for cheap thrills. You want dinner, and dates with friends, and being open and honest about who you’re hopelessly in love with.

Deep down, you know you’ve always loved Amy, but you’ve never been _in_ love with her until now. Why in the hell did it take you so long to get there?

Now, the fact that you couldn’t really commit to anyone or anything for a prolonged period makes a lot of sense. You were holding back for a reason.

“Well, I _was_ going to invite you two lovebirds to Hive with me, but I think you’re in need of some alone time,” she winks in this horrendous exaggerated way, and if Amy wasn’t still smiling and shaking her head at the theatrics, you’d have _killed_ Gia by now. You love her, but she has _no_ filter whatsoever.

You ask “Hive?” at the same time Amy says, “Would they even let us in?”

“That’s a lesbian bar right?” you ask, already knowing the answer. Shane talked about it in passing, and you know Amy went there more than once when she was in her ‘discovering’ phase.

She was always so much braver than you were.

“I mean, it has cheap drinks, good music, and hot girls, but it’s nothing like bars in West Hollywood. I took this one for an interesting bar crawl one summer,” she continues, nudging you.

“A real-eye opener,” you reply barely able to hide your smile at the way Amy’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “It was fun, but it would’ve been even better if you were there too.”

“Absolutely,” Gia and Amy both say at the same time, and it’s good to know that you haven’t lost your connection now you don’t see her everyday.

“Hive could be fun though,” Amy gives this cute little nod, sounding almost wistful when she says, “Fuck, I haven’t been there since I was eighteen with a fake ID!”

“How scandalous, and there’s me thinking you were all Marcia Brady!” Gia exclaims, looking immensely proud.

Amy laughs, full and loud, before she replies, “Not even close.”

A whole other universe just opened up out of nowhere. You’re not naive enough to think Amy lived like a nun all through the back end of high school and college, because she’s insanely good in bed, but still it’s strange to think of her going there with Reagan full of nerves using that fake ID. She has all this knowledge and experience you’re still learning about, and the easy way she and Gia are talking now just serve to remind you how much ground you have to make up. Sure, going to places like Girl Bar was fun, but for a while it was also pretty terrifying too.

It took you a long time to live in your own skin and not want to tear it off or remould it to fit differently. You’ll tell Amy all of this one day, but right now, you’re just happy to _be_ with her again.

You turn to Amy and ask, “Where did we even get those ID’s?” just to force yourself not to space out and overthink.

“Oh my God, you don’t remember?” she gapes. “Creepy Oliver!”

“Oliver _fucking_ Walsh,” you say, all too loudly as it clicks in your head, drink pausing its journey to your mouth.

He _was_ a creep, borderline obsessed with Amy, but _damn_ if he wasn’t useful for scoring IDs and hacking school records to tweak how many tardies and unofficial absences were on your file. You’re pretty sure he loved Amy so much he’d do anything, including inflating your GPA just because it’d make her stupidly happy. But, to your credit, you never did ask him for that, you worked your ass off for every _fucking_ point.

Now Gia’s the one looking between you with this sweet sort of expression you’ve never seen before. She’s not quite Shane at his Karmy shipping peak, but she’s close.

“God, you two, you just … yeah, I need to bottle what you have because it could bring about world peace.”

She’s joking, mostly, but the kindness in her eyes speaks volumes. She’s already said she’s happy for you, but now you can actually see it, and you’re proud. This whole night has been about unashamedly showing off Amy and how much you love her.

You look at Amy trying to gauge her reaction to the whole Hive idea, because you’re actually more torn than you thought you’d be. Mostly though that’s just because you’ve never been somewhere like that with her, and you’re kind of curious, but then you remember that’s what Kate would do, and that part of your life is very much _over_. You’re Karma now, and you’re just getting used to having Amy in your life, you want to keep her there, without it being mired by hooking up in nightclub bathrooms, patchy memories, and terrible hangovers.

“I think we’ll take a pass, G,” you announce, confidently. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Amy smiling.

“Another time?” she offers, backing you up, you can’t help but be touched by it.

“Sure,” Gia nods. “I’ll hold you to it …” she begins, trailing off when the cute waitress, comes back to your table.

“Can I get your ladies anything else?” All of you choose to answer at once in a chorus of “I don’t think so’s” and “No thank you’s” and it makes her laugh.

“We’ll just get the bill, thanks,” Amy offers, more sensibly, and you still kind of get whiplash when that cool, confident, adult version of her comes out.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same girl who obsessively memorised her order at The Brew & Chew so she wouldn’t make a mistake whenever she said it aloud.

“I figured,” the waitress replies, “Cash or card?”

“Cash, Alexa,” Gia jumps in reading off the waitress’s name badge. It makes her blush. Amy glances across at you with a knowing look.

“Sure, I’ll just give you guys a few minutes,” she says, placing down a small plate with the receipt in the middle.

Just like you know she would, Gia watches Alexa’s ass when she leaves, leaning back a little on her chair. When you swat her, she shrugs, smiling. You love that she has no shame.

“She’s cute, what can I do?”

“Show some restraint?!” you laugh.

“There’s no room for restraint here, go big, or go home!” she declares, slapping down her share of the bill. “We cool to split it?”

You and Amy both nod in agreement, fishing out your share. You from your purse, and her from her jeans pocket. Some things never change. You’re kind of relieved Gia made the decision because that stuff is kind of awkward, but it also signals the end of the night. It’s gone so fast, and Gia and Amy have gotten along so well, you’re a little sad. That feeling only gets heavier when you’re shrugging on coats and collecting belongings. Gia’s scribbling something down on a napkin, and you just shake your head at her when she catches your eye, smiling devilishly.

“So, I guess this goodbye for now, G?” you don’t bother to hide your sadness.

“Aww, Ash, babe, come on,” she begins, placing her hand over yours. “It’s been fun. We’ll do it again, OK? I’m here until the third, so there’s plenty of time for more.”

“For sure,” you nod, rising from your seat when she does. “Do not hook up with Eliza at Hive.”

Gia makes a disgusted face. “Oh, _hell_ no, I might be back in Austin, but I’m not going there with that toxic crazy bitch again,” she replies, turning to Amy when she adds, “Hot, but high maintenance,” in case she needs any clarification.

Amy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh really?”

“So not worth the hassle,” Gia waves a dismissive hand. “It’s a long, sad tale that we _definitely_ need more wine for!”

Amy’s better off hearing this version of events. The version that doesn’t include the soap opera levels of lesbian drama and crying it out with ice cream and Adele. She’s not as strong as she looks. You still shudder a little inside when you think about it. If you never see Eliza Greene again, it’ll be too soon.

“That bad?” she asks, with a smirk.

“That bad, babe,” Gia scoffs. “Next visit?”

Amy nods. “Definitely. It sounds like a two bottle kind of story.”

“I’ll make sure I have the supplies ready,” you chip in, smiling.

It would be nice to hang out with her again sometime in a less formal setting and really catch up, but this was important. You’re not in need of Gia’s validation or anything, because screw what anyone says now, you with Amy no matter what, but she’s still the first girl you’ve ever introduced Gia to. The first actually worthy of an introduction.

“I trained you so well!” Gia beams, looking you with a mixture of pride and fondness.

“It’s so great to finally meet you,” Amy says, warmly, coming around to her side of the table.

“And you! Amazing Amy in the flesh!” Gia grins, pulling her into a hug. It surprises you when Amy doesn’t seem to fight it. “I can’t wait to see your show.”

“I meant that about the tour,” she reminds her, stepping back. “I’m free Thursday?”

“That sounds great,” she nods. “Maybe we could get lunch then?” she continues, looking over at you.

You don’t even need to ask Amy before you say, “Absolutely. There’s this great little deli place we know, you’ll love it.” _We_. You catch yourself and smile.

“Oh!” Amy turns to you, the penny dropping, “Francio’s! Yes, they’re ridiculously good!”

“You could keep them in business on your own!”

“True,” she laughs, lightly.

She’s taken such delight in showing you around all these new places she’s unearthed, it’s kind of adorable.

“C’mere you!” Gia calls, reaching out for you. “You take care, I didn’t think I’d ever be happy you left me at AA, but I am.”

You nod, squeezing her tightly, willing yourself not to cry. It’s not like you’re never going to see her again. “I know. Say hey to everyone.”

“Of course, babe. I was going to try and convince you come back, but I’ve got competition against this one,” she says, stepping back and indicating Amy.

“Sorry I stole her,” she replies, a little bashful.

“I think we just borrowed her,” Gia offers, suddenly earnest. You don’t really have time to take in what she just said, because she’s hugging you tightly again, and whispers, “Marry her, I’ll be waiting for my invite,” in your ear as her parting shot.

With air kisses, and a little wave to you both, she’s gone. Amy seems to sense your sadness giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze. “You ready to go home, babe?”

 _Home_. It really does feel like home with her, and Austin hasn’t felt that way in a long time.

You nod slowly, still thinking about what non-committal, hit-it-and-quit-it Gia Costello just said to you. She’s right when it comes to every other relationship but her own. It’s a strange thought, but it’s not completely out of the realms of possibility right now. People would probably think you’re nuts, but you don’t care. They don’t know you and Amy, they don’t know what it’s like to be with her after waiting and wanting for so long.

“Totally ready for coffee, and sweatpants, and the rest of the night on the couch with you,” you whisper, because that really doesn't go with this fancy restaurant, but you know Amy only chose Filament because the food is _insane_ and she wanted to impress Gia. It’s adorable.

“We’re so rock and roll, I love it,” she replies, with laugh, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

You look back at the table to make sure you both have everything, and you see the napkin and start of Gia’s phone number peeking out. You have to admire her boldness. If only you had been as bold where Amy’s concerned. Sure, you’ve lost time, and it’s hard to get back, you know that, but you’re going to try. That time and that distance don’t seem to matter, not when Amy’s patiently waiting at your side, or when she’s holding open the door even though you’re perfectly capable and it goes against her feminist ideals.

“Me either,” you reply softly, stepping out with her into the street.

It’s colder out than you expected it to be, and you huddle closer to Amy for warmth. She wraps an arm around your waist, and if she hears the content sigh you let out, she doesn’t comment upon it. The walk isn’t that far really, and it’s just nice to wander around with her, and see the route she picks out. Even though you’ve lived in Austin since you were little girls, it feels really different now. This is Amy’s Austin you’re living in, and you really like it. You walk like that for a while, comfortable, keeping in step with her, getting straight satisfaction from the way your heels tap-tap-tap on the sidewalk in time with hers.

“This is nice,” she announces, breaking into the comfortable silence that hangs between you, squeezing you that little bit tighter.

“Totally is,” you offer, nuzzling closer to her, breathing her in.

You could get used to this.


	2. Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon their return to Amy’s apartment, Karma learns the depth of Amy’s feelings haven’t been dulled by the passage of time. Neither have her own.
> 
> _“Tonight has been pretty much perfect.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7167827).Thanks so much for your love and feedback on this story. It’s been great to have another opportunity to dip back into this ‘verse. The tone of intimacy within this chapter is similar to that of part one, but expressed in a different way. That said, I still wouldn't read it public place!

Lucky doesn't really cover everything that you’re feeling right now, still walking with her, soaking in the atmosphere of late night Austin. You’re in no rush really, idling almost, because you don’t really have anywhere to be but with each other. After years of living your life on a timed schedule, that freedom is nice. It’s a novelty. Everything about being here with Amy feels exciting and new, even mundane things like walking home after a night out. It’s comfortable and comforting because you have a shorthand with her – a rich history – that means there are things you don’t have to explain for her to understand them. You didn’t realise how much you’d missed that until she laughed while you told a story over lunch with Lydia, Gabriel, and Dan. The humour within it sailed over their heads, but she got it. She _always_ gets it.

Tonight has been pretty much perfect. Catching up with Gia was everything you hoped it would be too. If you’re honest, these past two weeks have been perfect. They’re the happiest of your adult life.

You want to tell her that now, whisper it, but you’re afraid you might jinx things.

Predictably, your phone buzzes, interrupting the moment. Even more predictably, when you finally get to see the screen, you find a text from Gia.

 

 **Gia (11:43 PM):**  
The line for Hive is around the block!  
I think you and Amy totally have it right.

 **Karma (11:44 PM):  
** Are you even surprised? It’s a Saturday.

 **Gia (11:44 PM):**  
True, lesbians travel in packs!  
Ah, what can you do.

 **Gia (11:44 PM):**  
Seriously though babe, I officially  
love Amy and you’re ridiculously  
good together. I so get it now.  
She’s a keeper. Just go with it  
fuck what people think.

 **Karma (11:45 PM):**  
Thanks. I know she is. I’m lucky.  
I never thought I’d get to be with her.

 

You look up then, self-conscious that Amy might be reading and you’ve said _way_ too much, but you decide you really don’t care if she was. The time for all that dating bullshit where you wait to text them back, or wait to call them, or wait to kiss them, or sleep with them is over. You and Amy have done all this ass backwards anyway. You’d slept with her seven times before she took you anywhere that could be remotely considered a date, and you don’t care about that either.

 

 **Karma (11:47 PM):**  
Nice work on the waitress by the way.  
I still can’t believe you did that! How do  
you even know she’ll call?

 **Gia (11:47 PM):**  
Nice subject change by the way.  
Remember fortune favours the  
bold, babe. FYI, Alexa already  
texted me. Never doubt my  
powers! Have I taught you nothing?

 

You resist the urge to type ‘fuck you’ and put your phone back in your coat pocket instead because you don’t want Amy to think you’re ignoring her. There’s less than a block left until you reach the comfort of her apartment. She’s pensive, staring off into the distance, and you’re beginning to wonder if the whole status change – if this whole _thing_ – is getting to be too much for her. In high school, you were barely apart, but now, being this close is a novelty.

“Did you have fun?” you ask.

She startles slightly, but smiles when she says, “Totally. Gia seems really cool. I can see why you like her much,” but there’s a tinge of sadness to her voice when she adds, “I’m glad she was there for you.”

“Are you OK?”

For first time, you stop walking.

“Karm, I’m so much _more_ than OK,” she implores, coming around to face you. “I love being with you and meeting your friends, it’s just a _lot_. I used to …” she tails off, embarrassed, puffing out a breath to steady herself. “I used to dream about walking around Austin with you like this, I’m still dealing with the fact it’s real.”

“Amy, I’m not going anywhere, OK?” you lean up and press a kiss to her lips. “I love being with you. I don’t want to be with anyone else, or be anywhere else.”

She lets out a long sigh, clearly relieved, and you wish you’d said it earlier.

“I know, it’s stupid,” she says, still self-conscious. “See, I told you, your Amy grew up, she didn’t disappear.”

You wait for her to look up until you reply, “Neither did your Karma,” and she pulls you into her arms, squeezing tightly. She kisses the top of your head, stroking your hair gently. “She just took a lot of time to find who she was,” you add, right in her ear.

It’s the first time you’ve really talked about any of this in real, concrete terms, but you never expected it to be this emotional. Mostly because two weeks ago, you never dared hope that any of this would happen.

“I’m glad she did,” she says, stepping back, but keeping hold of your hand. “So glad.”

“Not as glad as I am.”

You kiss her again, your hands cradling her face; slower and deeper, not caring who can see in the passing cars or from the windows of the buildings on either side of the street. This isn’t about just being in her bed anymore, it’s about _being_ with her after that, but kissing is the best way you know how to comfort her, especially when you’re lacking in words to express how you’re feeling. There’s nothing that comes close to how happy and how loved you feel just being in the same room with her, let alone when you do anything more physical. It isn’t just sex either, and it never really has been. You couldn’t have a one-night stand with Amy if you wanted to, because your history is too deep to sever connections too quickly. That’s what always used to scare you when you were young, and sent you straight into the arms of anyone who was the opposite and never promised the future, never promised anything at all like Amy did. But now, the fact that you pretty much know Amy is _it_ for you, is the reason you came running back to Austin in the hope of finding her.

When you pull away, grudgingly, her smile is back, brilliant and beautiful, and you know she’s OK now. She understands more than she did at least, and that’s good. You’re getting better at being more honest with her, but you know it takes time for her guard to drop. You also know you’re partly responsible for that guard existing.

“Let’s go home,” she breathes, resting her forehead against your own, her lips brushing yours once, twice, barely a kiss at all.

“Let’s,” you match her, kissing her again, just because, smiling when you add, “race you!”

It’s silly, but you don’t care, taking off down the street as fast as you can in heels, hearing Amy’s laughter and your own ring out, echoing in the night as she tries to catch up with you. By the time you make it to Amy’s building you’re giddy and breathless, sitting on the steps while you wait for her to catch up.

“Fuck, Karma, I’m so out of shape. Never do that again!” she exclaims, between ragged breaths.

“Slow poke, I win!” you singsong, and she gives you a weak smattering of applause.

You _have_ won. So much. You’ve hit the jackpot in the girlfriend lottery. You really like how that sounds, even if you’re only saying it in to yourself. Even so, it doesn’t quite work, ill-fitting since you’re twenty-five and not fifteen, but you’ve never liked ‘lover,’ and ‘partner’ is just plain weird because you’ll always associate it with lawyers. Then you remember, that word you and Amy used to throw around as easily as ‘hello’ and ‘I love you,’ she’s your _soulmate_. Your beautiful, super smart, and incredibly sexy soulmate. She completes you.

Right now, that soulmate isn’t looking all that smart or sexy, because she’s whirling around, patting every single pocket on her jeans and her coat looking for something.

“Fuck!” she yells, irritated. “I left my keys inside the apartment!”

Ah, so your Amy _does_ still exist. Except she doesn’t have to worry, you saw her leave them, picked them up and put them in your bag, just like everything else Amy doesn't like carrying anything, including her EpiPen. But, you kind of want to see her sweat a little, so you play along.

“You what?!”

“I know, I know!” she pouts adorably, dragging herself over toward you, and sitting down. “I swear I had them,” she continues.

“Maybe I could fit through the window, you said it was pretty easy to open, right?”

She looks panic-stricken and you feel horrible. “God, no! You might fall and hurt yourself!”

With a heavy sigh, she sits next to you on the steps, starting to pick through what came out of her pockets. She comes out with her phone, three sticks of gum, and a three-year-old ticket stub for a Scorsese retrospective at The Violet Crown Cinema. She groans, head in her hands, and you don’t have the heart to keep up your ruse. Reaching into the front pocket of your shoulder bag, you carefully take out the keys.

“Babe,” you say, coaxing her to lift her head. When she does, you jangle the keys right in front of her face, and her expression is priceless. “Lucky I was paying attention, hmm?” you press a quick kiss to her cheek, and rub off your lipstick when it leaves a mark.

“Fuck you!” she exclaims, shoving you playfully.

“I could totally make you wait for that, hold these keys hostage, you know,” you tease.

You’ve missed a lot about Amy, but deep down, you know you’ve missed this the most: the warmth, the playful, easy banter, the chemistry that crackles underneath and in between everything.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she argues, almost glowering. It shouldn’t be cute, but it is.

“I would!”

And then, you’re up and off, running into the lobby of the building with Amy chasing you all over again, shushing each other as you race up the stairs. Apartment 108 isn't just a number anymore, it’s the place you’ve begun to call home. By the time you reach her door, Amy’s right behind you, pressed close, with her hands on your hips, gently guiding you forward, pressing light kisses to your neck.

“Hey, hey, at least let me open the door!” you protest, laughter bubbling up, half heartedly pushing her away. “You’re very distracting.

“That’s my main aim,” she jokes, kissing you again. “Sorry.”

She’s not remotely sorry, grinning from ear to ear, and you can’t help but turn in her arms, keys still stuck in the door, because you need to kiss her. You actually _need_ to. It’s slower and heavier, quickly your hands finds the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair. She murmurs her approval into your mouth as she deepens it, teasing with her tongue, making you work for it.

Then, at the _worst_ possible moment, her phone rings, startling you both. In the quiet of the hallway, the tone sounds ear-piercingly loud.

“Fuck!” she exclaims through gritted teeth, burying her face in the crook of your neck, just like she did at the gallery.

“Dammit,” you groan, pulling away from her so she can answer, the moment gone.

“Seriously, whoever this is, I’m killing them,” she says, irritated as she pulls her phone from her pocket, checking the screen to see who’s calling. “Ah, it’s Amanda, sorry, I have to take this.”

That’s her ‘this is important’ voice, accompanied by her serious work face. You’ve seen that a lot in this past week, and you know letting this one go to voicemail isn’t an option.

“It’s OK,” you reply, because it’s really not her fault. “You get the phone, I’ll go inside, get the coffee, and we’ll get back to _that_ when you’re ready,” you offer, smiling brightly.

“You’re the best,” she says, sweetly, before finally turning to answer. “Hey, Amanda, what’s up? … I was at dinner with Karma and a friend of hers,” she begins walking off down the hallway.

You only listen for a few moments, just to see if everything’s OK, hearing snatches of what she’s saying as you move to open the door and go inside. The final thing you strain to hear before the door closes is _“OK, so we’re going forward with the project? Great!”_ and you can’t help but feel proud of her and everything she’s doing.

Every time you walk in here, you’re more comfortable. You and Amy haven’t labelled it as such – you haven’t really _labelled_ anything – but you’re practically living here now. All that nervousness about being here has mostly gone, even if you’re still working out your levels of intimacy. You move around the apartment easily, switching on the lights, hanging up your jacket on the hook, tossing your bag and the keys on the kitchen counter. You know where everything is now, and it feels completely natural to kick off your shoes and shake out your hair while you fill the kettle, and then reach up on your tiptoes to reach for Amy’s favourite jar of coffee, spooning out some into two huge mugs.

Little things like seeing two mugs side-by-side give you the strangest comfort, and you have to look back at it again before you move to the bedroom to change. Little things like that give this meaning, reminding you that even if you’re not quite sure what you and Amy have, you know it’s much more than some cheap fling. Sure, you’ve pretty much had sex on _every_ surface in this apartment; Amy carrying you around it, chasing you through it, only to end up laughing your way into bed, but this is about more than sex. If it was just about that, you wouldn’t be fine with taking off your makeup in her bathroom or letting her watch you mornings when you put it on. If it was just about that, you’d still be in that _ridiculous_ phase of needing to look perfect and be perfect, planning your outfits right down to the (sexy) pj’s you bring along. It was like that with Sam, and everyone else you’ve ever dated, but it’s not like that with Amy, and you know it, because you’re thoughtfully looking at her clothes in the drawer, knowing you can take anything you like to borrow, because what’s hers is yours now, and she won’t care one bit if doesn’t match.

You’re getting your life together, and Amy’s a huge part of that.

The real world has gradually seeped back into your lives, especially this week. You would’ve stayed in bed all week with takeout were it not for the very _real_ fact that you don’t have a job right now. You have savings of course, you’re much smarter than your parents ever were with money, but you don’t want to let them dwindle too far, or, worse still, expect Amy to pay for everything. She would, without hesitation, but you have no intentions of being a kept woman. It’s been tough to balance things, because you got so used to having her all to yourself, but you’re managing, breaking up your cycle of job hunting, interview scheduling and speculative résumé drops with visits to her studio. She’s juggling a lot of her own stuff now, with most of her team still out in LA while she continues with the press for her exhibition and develops prints from her last trip to New York. Somehow, you always manage to find time for each other, even if that’s only lunch at Fricano’s before you both go back to the grind. Waiting on bar and restaurant managers to call you back is a lot less tedious when you get to watch Amy working. Seeing those pictures appear out of nowhere is still as fascinating to you as when you were in Mr Whitmore’s dark room with her.

The kettle clicks off, boiled, just as you pull on Amy’s NYU hoodie teamed with her far too long blue and green plaid pants. The purple of the sweatshirt kind of clashes, but you don’t care, it’s amazingly soft, and comfortable, and smells of everything _Amy,_ and you want to live in it. You’re the only person apart from her who gets to wear it. Out of habit, you pour out a fresh glass of water she always has on her nightstand and find her pj’s for her in the tangle of bedclothes - it’s pointless making the bed now – laying them out where she can see. When you finally realise what the print on the shirt is, you can’t help but smile, it’s her doughnut shirt, faded, but still something she can’t bear to part with, just as worn as her favourite blue sweatpants. It’s silly, but you touch your hand to the shirt print, wondering if the sixteen-year-old version of you who borrowed it at countless sleepovers ever knew what the future held for her.

You’re just padding into the kitchen when Amy rushes back in, slamming the door behind her, full of apologies.

“Ugh, I’m so, _so_ sorry, that took _forever_!” she exclaims. “Amanda officially has the worst timing in history!”

“It’s fine,” you remind her, and she shakes her head not believing you anyway, coming to kiss you on the cheek. “Everything OK?”

“Oh, yeah, she was just calling to check some stuff. Time sensitive, you know?” she explains, and you nod. “I can finish it by email. It’s cool. Sorry it killed that _very_ nice mood we had there, so this, is definitely going off!” she declares, making a huge show of turning off her phone and putting it back in her pocket. It’s a sweet gesture. “By the way, I love the look. Very fashion forward. NYU colours look good on you, I knew they would!”

You flip her off good naturedly, with a “cute,” before reaching up on your toes to kiss her. “I wouldn’t say the mood was killed exactly,” you suggest, “just postponed a little. Go get changed, then we can relax … do whatever.”

“Whatever, huh?” she smiles mischievously. “Does whatever involve being in bed?” she asks as she passes, shedding clothes as she goes and leaving them where they fall.

Yeah, underneath it all, she’s still your Amy.

“It might,” you reply, shamelessly craning to watch her undress as you add milk to your coffee, stirring distractedly as you see her shirt go over her head quickly, revealing her beautiful back and shoulders that you really haven't kissed enough, and an elaborate bird tattoo you haven’t gotten the opportunity to ask her about. “But first I want you, coffee, that couch, and the trashiest movie I can find.”

“Sounds good to me, babe,” she calls, hovering by the door before adding, “Be right back.”

The door closes then, but you don’t really worry about it, because you're altogether too stuck on this whole ‘babe’ thing to care. You take your drinks to the coffee table in front of the TV and flop onto the couch with a grateful sigh, remote in hand. You’re still getting used to the affection and the pet names after so much time apart, but it’s babe that gets you. Instead of irritating the _hell_ out of you, it makes your heart pick up, and you swoon about it in a way you never did with, well, anyone. _Ever_.

Amy is the exception to just about every rule you’ve ever made.

“I’m back, I’m back,” she shouts, announcing herself before leaping over the back of the couch in _the_ most athletic move you’ve ever seen her do. “What movie did you pick?” she asks, reaching for her coffee and settling next to you.

“I got sucked into infomercials while I was waiting for you, I think I lost some brain cells,” you offer, sipping on your coffee, cradling your mug like it’s a child. “You decide.”

“Oh, that’s so dangerous,” she laughs, taking the remote from your lap. “This could totally turn into that time I made you watch The Three Colours Trilogy in one sitting.”

Actually, it turned out to be a pretty amazing experience; just you and Amy, alone together in her room with these strangely beautiful movies and a lot of snacks. You didn’t understand a lot of it, but you were fascinated by the reaction it provoked in her: the way the colours and the composition focussed her attention and mesmerised her to the point she cried; the silent, pretty kind of tears when you’re overawed. You kind of feel like that now, watching her profile again, in another warmly lit room, watching her flip through the channels on another, more expensive TV, well away from fancy bars and restaurants.

There’s so much feeling, so much _love_ , inside of you for her, you don’t know how long you can contain it, or even if you should.

You look over at her, smiling when you quietly say, “I don’t mind,” in reply. “I’m with you.”

“That’s what you said about Three Colours too.” Her smile matches yours, and she’s watching you for far too long, not taking any notice of what’s on the screen as the channels go by. This time, tonight, you don’t want to shrink away from her gaze, you want to move closer. “Ah, this is perfect!” she lurches forward, excitedly. “ _Before Sunrise_ is on in ten minutes. You loved _Before Sunset_ , remember? We never got to finish watching it before I left for New York. There’s another one after this, _Before Midnight_. It’s such a fantastic trilogy, Linklater’s best work if you ask me.”

“You’re so adorable,” you comment, taking her free hand and squeezing it.

She makes a face, flushing a little. “I know, it’s nerdy,” she shrugs, deflecting, putting down her now empty cup.

“No, it’s not,” you argue, placing your cup next to hers and leaning over to kiss her. “I love how passionate you are. It’s kind of, well, sexy really.”

“Like when you play or sing,” she agrees, and now it’s your turn to flush, a deep, _deep_ , red. “That’s so incredibly hot to me, I can’t even explain it.”

“Good to know, that’s an incentive for me to go to open mic's again.”

She doesn’t know this, but ever since you … well, ever since you got back together, you’ve been writing up a storm. You have notebooks full of lyrics and arrangements you’re tentatively building into songs. Devastating heartbreak works for Adele, sublime happiness works for you. Someday, you’ll be brave enough to show them to her. Someday, you’ll be brave enough to play them and dedicate them to her. That day feels like something that’ll happen sooner rather than later.

She nods, shuffling closer. “Consider me your number one groupie.”

“Weren’t you always?” you tease, looking at her over the top of your mug.

“Correction, consider me your number one groupie _again_.”

“Well, I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”

“Good to know,” she echoes, with a wink. “C’mere,” she beckons.

You smile, shaking your head at her when she pats her lap, expecting – knowing – that you’ll cuddle up to her. It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, and you wondered if this kind of intimacy was gone now other intimacies have replaced it. To find that isn’t true is kind of a relief. After a lot of shuffling around while the movie starts, you end up more with your head on Amy’s chest than in her lap, snuggled right against each other as you get drawn back into Jesse and Céline’s romance again. The fact that you can be with her like this is nice, and you stay like that for a long time, wrapped around each other, comfortable and content, with Amy idly stroking your hair. It’s making you kind of sleepy, and you’re losing focus on the movie, but you let her do it anyway, because every time she touches you, the tension and the stress you’ve been feeling about everything _other_ than her just dissipates.

This, here, right now, is why you’ve missed her so much. Why there’s been a void in your life that’s been so very hard to try and fill. No one else you’ve known is really the cuddling type. Sam would try, but then he’d get irritated when you moved, or you’d get irritated when _he’d_ move, and the vision you had of cuddling on the couch would be ruined. No one in your life is that perceptive either, not even Gia. It’s a different kind of caring, and even though she’s one of your best friends, you could never be like this with her. Ever. Makeup free and pj’s sure, but this kind of contentment? Never. Amy cares about you, and for you, in a way you’ve never found with anyone else, and you’ve looked. Hard.

“This is nice,” you comment, during one of the commercials. Just like when Amy said it outside the restaurant, it feels like you’re admitting to more.

“I know. I don’t really get to do this often,” she admits, a tinge of sadness to her voice.

“Me either really, with anyone,” you reply, lifting your head a touch. She smiles at you sweetly.

The movie’s back on, but you’re just kind of letting it go along, content to catch snatches of Ethan Hawke and Julie Deply looking pretty and in love as they wander around Paris together. The sound from the TV is another kind of comfort. You wonder if Amy’s been to Paris like you have, and if she loved it as much she always thought she would (you hope so). She had fun in New York, she likes the scene there (you knew she’d fit well), but she’s been frank about how it wasn’t quite what she expected.

That typifies a lot of adult life, you think: a series of events that play out nothing like you expect them to. These past two weeks are evidence of that.

“I don’t really stay here that often either,” she shrugs. “My apartment is only clean because I’m never here,” and then, she’s quieter and sadder when she says, “You’re my first guest.”

“Ever?” you venture, already kind of knowing the answer.

She puffs out a breath. “Ever,” the pain in her eyes is brief, but significant, disappearing just as quick as it came when she adds. “But I’m really glad you’re here to break that rule. I always hoped you’d come.”

You swallow, emotions surging up out of nowhere, tears filling your eyes, matching her own. Losing Amy, being without her, has always felt like a solitary experience, because of how your ties were severed, but to know she’s been lonely and hurting all this time too is somehow the worst thing you’ve ever learned about the years you’ve been separated. Sensing the conversation is shifting to something more serious – with cuddling, Ethan, Julie, and Paris left behind – you move back, scooting around to sit next to her.

“I’m really glad I answered your email.”

She nods, solemn. “I know I was asking a lot, but working with Dan and the gallery to get the show going, looking back on everything,” she pauses to steady herself, “it made me realise how much I missed having you in my life.”

Though she’s not saying anything you weren’t already aware of, the confirmation is nice.

“That’s how I felt as soon as that friend request landed in my in my inbox.”

“I was terrified you’d just delete it.”

“I thought about it,” you admit. Her face falls. “But, then I thought what a waste that would be, not to be a part of your life, see how you’ve been doing,” you pause to take her hand, feeling your voice start to crack, heavy with emotion. These things are hard to say, but they need to be said. Communication, or lack of it, cost you everything. “To see the amazing person you’ve become and share in your success.”

Even though you’re teetering on the brink of tears, you’re smiling too, because you’re so, _so_ proud of her, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to put into words how much.

Amy leans forward then, sniffing back tears, and you’re half wondering if she’s going to up and leave, because you know this stuff is hard – the hardest part of reconnecting with her – but she keeps hold of your hand, reaching for something on shelf of the coffee table hidden amongst all the magazines and photography books.

“This came in the mail today while you were out at your interview,” she explains, cautiously turning toward you with a large padded envelope. “I wasn’t sure when I’d share this with you, but it feels right to do it now.”

Truthfully, the afternoon had been an utter disaster. You got lost finding the bar, you were late, and then the manager was a sexist douche bag who wanted you to parade around like some extra in a low-rent knock-off of _Coyote Ugly_. Needless to say, you won’t be getting their bartending job anytime soon. When you made your way back to the apartment, Amy was already working, editing footage on her computer setup in the corner, so you didn’t burden her with it beyond the main (horrendous) bullet points of the experience, and you both commiserated with beers on the balcony before getting ready for dinner and calling Gia to give her directions to the restaurant. After a few sips of beer, and a few kisses from her to cheer you up, the whole mess was mostly forgotten. Now you can’t help but think you just steamrollered in and made everything about you when she’s clearly wanted to share something.

“I’m the worst, I just rambled on about my crappy interview and that fascist-looking hipster bar manager!”

“No, you’re not, it’s totally fine,” she assures. “Karm, trust me, _he_ was the worst. Anyway, I wanted you to give it your full attention, and we were both distracted with work and Gia’s visit so stop beating yourself up,” she continues, putting an arm around your shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.

Then, she moves forward, turns off the TV and puts the remote on the table. This suddenly feels very serious.

“What is it?”

“Open it and see,” she encourages.

Carefully, you take the envelope from her and reach inside. It’s a manuscript of some kind, with a note attached, handwritten, on the gallery’s headed paper.

 

_Amy,_

_It’s finally here! The proof! I had Dan message it over straight away. Everyone thinks it looks great. If there’s nothing you need to change, then we’re good to go._

_I couldn’t be prouder of everything you’ve achieved. I know this is just the start of so many great things. I can’t wait to see where your incredible talent takes you._

_Best wishes_

_Christina._

 

“Wow.”

Amy nods. “I know.”

Even that note has you welling up. That message isn’t just from _anyone_ , it’s Christina Holman, a visual artist and the creative director of The Austin Contemporary. She’s been Amy’s role model and mentor ever since she was an intern there. She made Amy’s life a misery back in high school and worked her hard, but now, you can’t help thinking it was for good reason. When you lift the note away, passing it back to her – it’s likely she’ll frame the damn thing, she had to trade some serious blood, sweat, and tears for praise that high – you just have to sit there with the proof on your lap for a moment and let yourself take it in.

 

F R A G M E N T S:  
A Photographic Journey

By Amy Raudenfeld.

 

With the same care, you start to turn the pages, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Amy stiffen, gripping the edge of the couch for support. After the usual title page and the publishing information is the dedication, and suddenly, you think you know why she might be so nervous.

 

_I wouldn’t have become a photographer without the love and support of my family and friends, but without the encouragement of my parents, Farrah and Hank, I would’ve never taken pictures or been allowed to pursue my dreams to the heights that I have. I love you, thank you for everything. Lauren, Shane, thank you for letting me practise on you, and severely test our bonds. You had faith in me when I didn’t. Thank you._

_This book would not have been possible without my second family, my colleagues at The Austin Contemporary gallery – in particular, Lydia Holland, Dan Olstead, and Gabriel Flores, who let me learn the ropes and learn from my mistakes. Christina Holman, I’m forever grateful to you for unwavering support and mentorship. I’m a better artist because of you. Thank you._

_To my NYU classmates and my creative partners at Rad Films, Alexander Scott, Kier Clemmons, Amanda Underwood, and Sarah Dolan, I’m constantly inspired by your talent and your love for this art. Thank you for giving me the space to grow and create._

_This book is a product of every person I’ve met. Your faces, your stories, and your voices will always be a part of me. Thank you for being who you are, and for sharing your lives with me._

_I dedicate this to K. Whether you know it or not, you’re in every frame. You’re the beginning and end of everything. I love you with all my heart._

_Amy._

 

You keep reading that last line, over and over, not sure what to say or what to do because you know Amy wants something – she deserves something – for putting her heart out there like that. Again. But, she’s rendered you speechless, in the _best_ way. You let out a long breath, place the proof back in the envelope and put it back on the table, slow and careful, like it’s made of glass. Finally, you turn to Amy, and she looks terrified, searching you for some kind of reaction. The silence is weighing on her too heavily. Still, no words will come – there are thousands in your head – swirling, jumbling, overlapping, and confused – drowned out by the loud, rapid beating of your heart. You’ve felt this way before: on Farrah’s wedding night, at the pool party, in the street when Amy left you behind for the tour, when she came to see you at your lifeguard post, at Liam’s Bar Mitzvah, when she came to the hospital after your father’s heart attack, in that crowded airport lounge when she left you behind for New York.

Every time, you stayed silent and let her go. Every time, you cried yourself to sleep. Every time, you regretted the fact that you weren't brave enough to love her.

Now, you’re brave enough. You love _her_ with all your heart.

“Karma, I know it’s a lot –”

You cut her off with a kiss, tentative and slow, brushing her lips softly. She must be able to feel you shaking, but it’s all you can do. It’s the only answer you have. It’s the only answer she’s ever wanted.

Amy’s still looking at you nervously when you pull away, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, that you’ll somehow choose now as your moment to run, but you won’t be going anywhere any time soon.

“You wrote this before we even …” you trail off, hand to your mouth, unable to finish the sentence because the enormity of Amy’s words hits you all at once.

“I did,” she nods, her tears brimming over, slipping silently down her cheeks. “Months ago. I just … I just needed you to know,” she stutters.

Something in your chest seizes, because you don’t see that classy, confident twenty-five-year-old Amy that you’ve fallen for all over again, you see the fifteen-year-old version of her instead; shy and sweet, who you were terrified of falling for. It’s just a little too much. Back then, you broke her heart before she could break yours; things are pretty much equal there now. You don’t have the right vocabulary to say how much you’re feeling right now, heart racing, fit to burst.

“Oh, Amy,” is all you manage before you surge forward, up on your knees, and you’re kissing her again.

They’re quick at first, hard little pecks dotted all over her face as you cradle it, and she’s laughing lightly, but then your adrenaline starts to level out, and it’s less an attack, and more a declaration of intent as you trade softer, slower kisses, each longer than the last. She sighs into your mouth, and those kisses deepen. Tonight, you don’t want to end up a tangled, sweaty, breathless mess that’s half on the floor and half on the couch – that was last night, and it was _so_ incredibly hot. Tonight, you want to be in her bed, wrapped up in her, so she’s all you can see, and hear, and touch, and taste, and you know now, just by looking at her when she breaks the kiss, that she wants this too.

Keeping your gaze fixed on her, you reach for the zipper of your hoodie and pull it down as slowly as humanly possible, revealing yourself to her. The reaction you get is reward in itself. She tilts her head appreciatively, mouth dropping open slightly when she realises you’re not wearing a bra. You don’t worry about your body anymore, not like you used to, and the fact that Amy has kissed almost every inch of it in adoration and blessing, has a lot to do with that.

“Not here, babe,” she says, softly, leaning forward and resting her hands on your thighs. It’s so different to the cab ride, so different to the frenzied energy of last night. Something very different is happening.

Usually, it’d send you running for the hills. Emotions, and feelings, and sex were something you made sure did _not_ go together, but now, you don’t mind that the lines between them are starting to blur. You trust her enough. She trusts you. Every bone in your body is saying: s _tay, stay, stay,_ and, _love her, love her, love her._

“So where?” you ask, playing innocent, barely able to keep from smiling.

“Bedroom,” she begins, in that low, familiar tone that tells you she’s turned on, leaning forward to kiss you. “Our bed,” another kiss, as her hands reach out, palms flat against yours, fingers lacing easily together.

 _Our_. It’s not just her bed anymore. It’s not just her apartment either.

You’re still kissing as you both rise from the couch, and still when she’s guiding you backwards toward that bed, giggling as you bump into the armchair and then the counter in turn. She backs you against it, hips pressing hard into yours. It hurts a little, and there will probably be a telling bruise, but it doesn’t really matter, because she’s soothing it with kisses, latching onto your neck. She lets go of your hands only to lift you up onto the counter, grabbing your ass and squeezing purposefully. Her kisses drift back to along your jaw, until she kisses you full on the mouth, heavy and insistent. This dominant, _hungry_ , version of her is so _incredibly_ hot, and it only gets hotter because she’s peeling off your hoodie, tossing it away so she can move even closer to you.

“I thought you said...” you ask, breathlessly, between one kiss and the next, “not here?”

“I’m impatient,” she murmurs, “and you’re wearing _way_ too many clothes to be in bed with me.”

You can _feel_ her smiling as her hands start to roam all over your breasts, stroking and squeezing gently because she know it’s what you like, and you arch into her touch, craving more, already knowing she’ll give it. Her sudden forcefulness makes you gasp into her mouth, arms threaded around her neck, fingers threaded in her hair, trying to keep hold of anything that’s her. You don’t have much time to think, because then she’s lifting you again, clear off the counter, swerving towards the bedroom and you wrap your legs around her waist without a second thought, knowing you’re in safe hands. The safest.

It’s so different, so _very_ different from the first time you came into this apartment.

She drops you onto the bed with practised ease, and you lean back on your elbows, watching, because you know what’s coming too. Amy likes you to watch when she undresses, she likes the display, the exhibitionism. She’s lost the teenage shyness that made her hate swimsuits, and bikinis, and getting changed in front of people after gym. Now, she does it with such effortless joy, it’s almost like a party trick.

“C’mere ... ” you beckon her with a smile and a wag of your finger. It’s not really necessary, but you know she likes that too.

Within seconds, her shirt is gone, in one quick yet languid movement, tossed to the side. You scoot back to the edge of the bed, reaching for her and pressing light kisses to her stomach, untying the cords on her sweatpants with teasing slowness, and follow those sweatpants down to the floor until she kicks them off. You don’t know why this slow – torturously slow – reveal of a body you've come to know well is so fascinating, and she catches you staring, hands running up her legs until they resting back on her hips again. You can’t help it, you love how soft her skin is – how warm and how perfect. You can do this now, touch for the sake of touching. She lets out a breathy laugh, her own hands dropping to run through your hair, tugging slightly when you repeat your trail of kisses, hands sliding up to cover and then palm her breasts. A new noise comes from her then, breathy and sharp, that you’ve never heard. Before you can really think about what that might mean, she’s leaning down to kiss her lips capturing yours in a rough, heated kiss.

You’re still kissing as she eases you backwards for a second time and she’s climbing onto the bed, her body covering yours.

“Am I still wearing too many clothes?” you whisper, hands skating down her back.

“Yes,” she breathes, smiling softly and kissing you again, lighter and quicker. “Far too many, but I can fix that,” her smile widens, devilish.

Now, you’re the one watching as she moves back, reaching for the ties on your pj pants. This time, her hands aren’t shaking. You half expect her to yank them and your panties off quickly, pulling you down the bed a little with it, but she doesn’t. She eases them down, slowly, like you’ve never seen each other naked or undressed before. Like this is a gift. There’s a gentleness and a care to the way she touches you that’s slowly been creeping back in over the last few nights. She’s never overly rough with you, never pushes you too hard, but you can see more and more of her armour falling away.

The longer you’re with her, the more she feels like the Amy you know.

Now you’re naked, and she’s hovering over you, just looking, but you don’t feel scrutinised or vulnerable, you just feel loved. You lean up, meeting her in the middle for another kiss. It’s softer, lingering as you pull her down next to you, brushing her hair out of her eyes. You stay facing each other like that for what feels like a long time; kissing idly, tracing patterns with your fingertips on each other’s skin. Your hand falls to rest on her hip, fingers hooked into the thin material of her panties, and she rolls onto her back instinctively. You straddle her, fingertips drawing a path between the valley of her breasts, moving downwards, until your palms are flat on her stomach. She lets out a shuddering breath, back arching, hips lifting just a little – just enough – to let you know she wants you to touch her. She’s not one for dirty talk or screaming her head off, but you know her tells now. You know how her breath hitches and how she makes these soft, little content moans that build up over time. You know exactly what that heavy-lidded look and the lip-biting means. You know everything. Her release isn’t always loud, and you think it happened the first time out of shock. It blindsided her. Even so, you think it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard in your life, second only to the particular hushed way she says her name when you’re in bed together, entirely different to how she speaks to you and about you the rest of the time – like your magic and wondrous and perfect.

That’s the look you're getting now as you move lower, slowly inching down her panties. She lets out a little huff of annoyance, and you just go slower on purpose, just to tease her. Even when those panties are gone, thrown off somewhere to the side, you still make her wait. You make her wait with the barely there kisses pressed to her thighs as you nudge them apart. You make her wait with light teasing licks of your tongue that are close, but not close enough her slick folds. You make her wait until she can’t anymore, until you can feel the tension in her stomach, palms resting there, stilling her hips when they try to lift; eager, desperate. You make her wait because you need to. It’s not going to take long, you know it. She’s so wet already, and it still blows your mind to think you made that happen. She’s turned on, _you_ turn her on. That first touch, that first taste of her, is always your favourite. The second you move closer, drawing in her inner lips and pulling slightly, she gasps – harsh and loud, and a hand flies to your head, urging you forward. She’s waited long enough. You finally give in, and start with the longest and slowest of licks through her folds. Nothing tastes as good as her.

“ _Fuck_ ... ”

She blurts it out at the same time you think it, exhaling a long breath, knowing she loves the feeling. You keep going, sliding your hands downward, arms hooked around her legs to still her hips more as they start to buck upwards. She sighs in contentment at the change in angle, and you delve deeper, your tongue lapping against her in faster, shorter strokes. Like you it would, her breath hitches again, softer this time, and when you quickly glance up you see her with her head tilted back, mouth slightly open and her free hand is in her own hair. You keep going like that for a while, alternating with faster and slower sweeps of your tongue, switching up the pressure just to see what happens. You like it when she gasps louder, and when her nails dig into your scalp in reward. You love it when she fucks you – _God_ , do you love it – but you could spend your whole life doing this and never tire of it. You’re good at it, or so you’ve been told.

“Karma … _Please_.”

You’ve never heard _that_ before. Suddenly the tension that’s been building in your stomach spikes, and you find yourself grinding a little against the bed for the friction, just to take the edge off. You’ve never been so turned on by someone before. Giving her pleasure is a reward in itself.

Just from the sound of her voice – shaky, breaking, desperate – you know that she’s close too, so you finally turn your attention to her clit. You keep your tongue light, barely anything, just using the tip of your tongue, and she lets out the most delicious sound, like you're actually drawing it out of her as you start to draw patterns all over it, murmuring against her when she starts to gasp, her breathing getting shallower and shallower. The hand on the back of your hand is pressing more urgently now and you know what you need to do. Drawing in her clit completely, you suck on it, lightly, teasing it with your tongue in tight figure-eights, before letting go for brief periods, back to working her over with your tongue, just to give her a chance to rest and make this last. You’ve made her come quickly before – to the point that she’s cutely embarrassed – because she’s so sensitive and so incredibly turned on. When it happens quickly like that, it wipes her out. She enjoys it sure – everything she’s doing is telling you that – but you want her to _really_ enjoy it. There’s a groan of frustration when you stop completely, and you almost want to laugh, because you’re _so_ not done. You keep your touches purposefully light, stroking through her slow and soft – as soft as you can make it, before you suck in her clit again and repeat the same kind of movements, teasing her with a lazy sort of slowness, and you hum against her, murmuring your approval when her breathing gets more ragged, faster, and shallower and … it happens. You can almost hear the ‘kaboom’ of her orgasm, hidden amongst the string of curse words and your own name, clearer than anything, stuck in her throat, repeating.

Listening to that and feeling that never gets old. It’s beautiful.

You ease her down, tongue barely lapping while your hands stroke her thighs, still feeling them shaking as her breathing starts to even out. Moving up to kneel before her again, the sight of her makes your chest ache in the best way. She’s so _incredibly_ beautiful. She’s looking at you in this dazed, awed way, like she’s not sure you’re real, and it’s almost too much because you can still taste her on your tongue, and you lick your lips, never wanting it disappear. She’s still like shaky, breathless, spent, when you crawl back up to look at her. You take her into your arms, stroking her hair and kissing her face gently.

It’s a long time before either of you speaks. There’s nothing you really _can_ say.

“You’re _very_ good at that,” she laughs, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over it. “Seriously.”

“I try,” you shrug, trying for innocent but sounding more smug.

You stay like that for a while, kissing each other, lazy and deep, because you can. When you break for air, you expect Amy to make some other smart-ass comment, but she doesn’t. She studies you, quietly, for a long time. You’re about to ask her if something’s wrong, because she looks so serious, so pensive all of a sudden, that you’re worried. Maybe all of this is too much for her, too fast? That’s the most intimate you’ve _ever_ been. Every other time you’ve slept together, she’s distracted you with kisses or just flipped you over so she ended up going down on you, tonight, she let you, she didn’t put up any kind of resistance.

It has to mean something, but now you’re not so sure that’s a good something.

“Come to LA with me,” she says, in this sweet, nervous way.

Your immediate reaction is to blurt out, “What?” and she smiles, big and bright.

“I said, come to LA with me,” she repeats, her lips barely brushing yours in the gentlest of kisses.

Hearing it again it makes it no less bizarre, but no less wonderful.

“Amy, I ... ” you begin, not sure if you’ve even grasped the enormity of what she’s saying.

“It’s just, when Amanda called, she said our backers – possible backers – want to meet me. Amanda and Alex can pitch well, but they need more than that,” she explains. “I know, it’s a huge deal, and you’re kind of getting yourself and your life together.”

That’s kind of an understatement. All your life, you’ve waited for some magical click, when things would fall into place for you, and you’d understand everything, just like Amy seems to have done, but it never happened. It never happened until you walked into that gallery and saw her again. All life without her had taught you was what you didn’t want, and after all that was cleared away, there was only one thing left: the girl – woman – in your arms, face inches from yours.

“Amy.”

“I’m not talking forever, this is just a trip,” she continues, “but, I understand if you’re not ready.”

After everything you’ve shared, seeing her like this, so cautious, so uncertain is strange.

“I just want you to meet Amanda and everyone. I want to share my world with you.”

Truthfully, she talks about them so frequently and with such fondness, you feel like you’ve met them already, because of all the pictures and the videos and the stories. Now she’s met Gia, the most important person from your time at AA and the Dallas years, it only feels right you meet them too. You want to impress them. They matter to Amy, so they matter to you.

The way she says ‘I want to share my world with you,’ sounds a lot like ‘I love you.’

You’re not sure of anything you want beyond Amy, and starting to play music again. You think that maybe those two things are all you ever wanted.

“ _Amy_!”

“Sorry, sorry,” she pulls back, finally realising she hasn’t let you speak at all. “I just wanted to get it all out because I didn’t think I’d have the courage,” she pauses to steady herself, eyes brimming with tears, “I don’t want to leave you in another airport lounge.”

 _Oh._ She’s rendered you speechless. Again. Of all the things you thought she could say, it was never that.

You close what little distance there is between you, hands framing her face as you kiss her fiercely. There’s a huge rush of air and she doesn't react to it for a moment; frozen, startled because she didn’t expect this either. “Yes,” you reply, finally. “Yes,” each time you say it, you punctuate it with a kiss, growing more and more confident. “I’ll go with you,” you clarify, seeing her face light up in the brightest of smiles. You kiss her again, slow and careful, just because you can.

“You’re sure?” she asks, stroking your cheek.

“Absolutely,” you assure. “I know we still have a lot talk about, but this feels right, Amy,” you take a breath to steady yourself, knowing that you’ll only get to say this once. It has to be right. “I want to be wherever you are, OK? I want to be with you.”

She nods, slowly, still looking at you like she can’t really believe what you’re saying. “You’re ready?”

What she really means is ‘are you ready now,’ or ‘are you ready finally?’ She’s waited long enough for you.

“I’m ready,” you reply, nodding for emphasis.

This is about more than a trip to LA.

From the look on her face, you know you’re not the only one who’s been dreaming of a future you never thought you’d realise. She laces her fingers with yours. It fascinates you how easily, how perfectly, they fit.

“There are so many things I want to show you,” she muses kissing you again, her free hand running through your hair.

You’re still kissing when she flips you both over, until you’re pinned underneath her, with almost all of you bodies touching. You keep kissing, tangled up in each other, fingertips brushing along her shoulders and down her back. Then, you touch her tattoo for the first time, feel the raised outline, tracing the bird’s wings. It’s enough to get her to grudgingly pull away from the kiss, but you don’t really part, still looking at each other through heavy–lidded eyes as you idly touch each other.

“It’s for you,” she breathes. “To remind me.”

Your immediate thought is to ask ‘of what?’ but you already know the answer. All this time, you thought she’d moved on and let go, when she really hadn’t. Not in a way that’s unhealthy or weird, just that … you’re part of each other, no matter how you try and fight it. You don’t need to say ‘I love you,’ because you feel it when she kisses you again, harder and more passionate at the exact moment her free hand drifts from your hip down in between your legs, her fingers sliding easily inside you, curling slowly. You don’t need to say ‘I love you,’ because you hear it when she whispers how good it feels to touch you and how beautiful you are.

Finally, belatedly, you believe her.

That’s the way you stay; warm and sleepy, wrapped up in each other, so close you can hear her heart still speeding in her chest, matching your own when your hips rise to meet her touches and her name falls from your lips, “Amy … Amy … Amy,” like a prayer when you come all too hard and too fast. It’s almost a shock, but the best kind of shock. Amy’s smiling, and it’s definitely smug, pressing kisses to your shoulder and neck as she slows down, the lazy rhythm she had fading into nothing when she eases her fingers out. For a few moments, you just lie there, feeling a little bereft, overwhelmed, because … _wow_ , and you’ve said that a lot on the back of being in bed with her, but this is a whole other scale of _wow_. You feel weightless, like your whole body is made of Jell-O – light and boneless. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you towards her, because there’s no way you can move on your own.

Why did you wait so long for this?

This might not be the product of good timing or even good decisions, but you have another chance to make things right and you’re not about to waste it. You know you’ve made the right choice as she nuzzles into you, head resting on your chest, content to fall asleep in your arms. In the end, you realise it was never really a choice at all. Though there are no glow stars on her apartment ceiling, you look up anyway, knowing the pattern they made from memory, and quietly wish upon them for bringing her back to you. Your mother always said if you were meant to be, it would happen. The universe would work in your favour. Like you, the universe has taken a long time to get herself together, but that waiting wasn’t for nothing. It brought you here. The last thought you have before your eyes drift closed, too tired to stay awake any longer, is that you’re ready to love her now. You’re ready to be loved by her. You’re ready to build a life with her. A real life.

A life that’s better than anything you could possibly dream of.


End file.
